


The Appearances Can Be Deceiving

by selyndae



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Dimension Travel, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selyndae/pseuds/selyndae
Summary: It's a normal mission... or is it? Sometimes waking up can be a bit misleading.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Originally appeared in Kuryakin Files #28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stage is set...

It was getting dark. Napoleon Solo crouched near a rock, the biting cold from the wind cut like sharp knives into his exposed face. He blew on his mittened hands in turn, trying to stay warm, while watching the guards’ movements. Raising the binoculars up to his eyes to study the doorway, he found himself squinting to make out the shapes of the various structures as they were becoming increasingly hidden by the lengthening shadows. Illya had gone inside forty-two minutes ago to set the last of the explosives deep inside the Thrush laboratory. Double checking his watch, Napoleon again blew on his hands to try and warm them. 

Eight minutes. He looked around the compound, his eyes checking for any sign that something was off. So far, so good... no extra activity... no alarms raised.

Damn, but it was cold. He checked the time again. Seven minutes. Illya should be coming out anytime now. Napoleon hunched down into his coat again. He hated the cold, and was momentarily annoyed because his partner seemed to thrive on it. Illya should be the one standing guard outside in this bitter stuff. But... much as he hated to admit it, Illya _was_ the better man when it came to planting explosives. And this laboratory had to be _completely_ destroyed. Again, since Illya was the scientist, he wouldn’t have to guess about which bits could be left, and which samples or notes must be taken or destroyed on sight.

Napoleon sighed. He hated jobs where they had to work separately. Oh, it made perfect sense to just have just one agent go down to the lower levels of this particular Satrap; safer, but he still hated it. He hated any missions where he wasn’t watching Illya’s back, or when Illya wasn’t watching his. He had to concede that his part in this mission had been relatively easy. All he had to do was wire the perimeter to explode inwardly with a triggering device. Which was why he was already finished. And, why he was crouched, shivering, waiting for Illya to return.

Two minutes. Napoleon started to tense up. Illya was cutting things pretty fine. He gave a mental shrug. It wasn’t the first time. But, still... something _felt_ wrong. He shivered again. This time, though, it wasn’t from the cold. It was—

And, at that moment the time was up, and the Satrap exploded in a spectacular array of black smoke and flames, flaring up well over sixty feet into the night sky. The concussion from the blast shook down some rocks behind Napoleon, causing him to lose his footing. Even from over 100 yards away he could feel the heat.

Jerking his binoculars back up to his face, he peered anxiously, searching through the thick, dark smoke for a familiar figure...

Nothing.

In that moment, the horror swept over him in a giant wave of overpowering helplessness and loss...

Illya didn’t make it out.


	2. Act I: What's a Nice Boy Like You Doing in a Place Like This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprising development!

At the site of the destroyed Satrap, agents from Sections 2, 3, and 4 secured the area as they searched for possible survivors, bagging any retrieved equipment and data for further study. As they dug deeper, there was less to be discovered in the massive destruction. It had been over three hours since they found anyone still alive, other than the two Thrush guards; one who died shortly after his rescue, the other bruised and shaken was on his way to headquarters for questioning. One of their own men had slipped and fallen down one of the ripped-open floors. He was subsequently rescued and in stable condition, considered very lucky to only have a broken leg.

With every passing hour, the thought that Illya was dead—killed either by Thrush or from the blast—was pushing its way insistently into Solo’s thoughts. Napoleon kept pushing them back. His emotions would have to wait; for now, he had a job to do.

 

April Dancer walked up to Napoleon, carrying a thermos and some cardboard cups. Silently, she poured a cup of hot coffee into one and handed the fragrant cup over. Napoleon waved it away, but April persisted. “Napoleon, you need this.” 

It was easier to take the proffered cup than to keep refusing. Nodding his thanks, he glanced up, meeting her eyes. That moment’s connection was almost his undoing. Worry and compassion were clearly shining out of bright, tear-filled eyes. April fully understood what Napoleon was going through; the worry, the mission—everything.

“Mr. Solo!” Some of the men were calling from the site.

Napoleon crushed his now-empty cup, and rushed over to look down at the devastation. “What is it?” he called down, quieting his dread of the anticipated bad news.

One of the men climbed part way up the ladder. “We found another section. It appears to be reinforced and, surprisingly, I mean, considering the size of the explosion, practically intact.”

“Well...?” Napoleon waited for more.

The man hesitated. “We managed to get a camera down inside the area to have a look. It’s dark, but we can see three people inside. They _could_ be alive, but we’re not sure.”

“And...?” Napoleon wondered what the problem was.

“The surrounding structure is really shaky. I’m not sure we can even get inside, let alone pull anyone out.” The man stopped, allowing Napoleon to absorb this new information.

Abruptly, Napoleon took hold of the ladder and prepared to descend.

The agents worked quickly to pull out the survivors. It was a near thing. Even as they were getting them out, debris was raining down. The first, probably a Thrush guard, was badly hurt with severe burns over all the visible parts of his body and at least one broken arm and some ribs. Speed being the top priority, he was strapped down and rushed out. The next was a very tall man (probably a Thrush lab technician by his garb). The serious burns on his face and arms were the only visible damage but his blood pressure and breathing indicated serious internal injuries. Even as they started the rescue, he stopped breathing. A quick check showed there wasn’t anything more they could do, so they moved on to the last victim. This was a small blonde who’d saved herself by donning a protection suit and wrapping herself up in a mattress. They strapped her down, still inside the suit, to get her out quickly.

They never found Illya. 

“We’re sorry, Mr. Solo.” Tired as the rescuers were, they felt the pain of not being able to save one of their own. Most of them were familiar with the small, exacting Russian, and held him in deep respect. But, the site was rapidly becoming far too unstable. Already, two more searchers had to be sent to medical due to injuries caused by the falling debris. Solo closed his eyes briefly in heart-wrenching regret before making the difficult decision. They had to pull out. It was too dangerous to stay and continue what must now be a retrieval mission—downgraded from rescue.

With that, the bulldozers were on their way to cover the site... and bury the dead they left behind.

 

“Mr. Solo, I’m very sorry about Mr. Kuryakin.” Mr. Waverly spoke quietly. As often as enforcement agents were told they were expendable, it was always hoped that this ultimate sacrifice wouldn’t be necessary. Even through his pain, Napoleon could see that his boss was completely sincere and mourned the loss as well. Unfortunately, Napoleon was all too familiar with the sorrow he felt whenever a fellow agent was killed—even more so when it was someone from his own office. But, this time it was different. It was Illya—his partner, his best friend. Sure, he knew all the platitudes about these close friendships, that it was risky to say the least. But, realistically, when you had a partner you needed to depend upon, you couldn’t help but get close. And if you were lucky enough to have a partner that... ‘clicked’, someone who completed you, making your two-man unit function as a single entity, well, something that special, rarely, if _ever_ came along.

Napoleon knew that he would always feel this loss. He also knew that only time would dull the cold, hollow emptiness he felt... eventually.

 

Napoleon Solo stared at the woman who was unconscious inside the infirmary. He’d just gotten word that the technician died of complications during the surgery. The burns had been too extensive—the injuries too severe. This woman was the last survivor, and based on her proximity to the blast, probably knew a great deal about the research. She was a small woman, short, slim, her blonde hair cut in a shaggy, but practical style that just brushed her shoulders. 

Her unconsciousness was puzzling. There was no evidence of head trauma and her other injuries were not too severe: a dislocated right shoulder and hairline fracture to the right wrist. Apparently, she’d broken other bones in the past according to her x-rays and, judging by her scars, it was obvious she’d been whipped and tortured at some point. It looked like she was either forced to work for Thrush… or else, she was a very active field agent. 

Solo shook his head at that unlikely possibility. As Chief Enforcement Agent, he not only had extensive personal field experience, he also had the benefit of reading through the reports of the other agents in Section 2, New York. In addition, he was privy to information through his boss, Mr. Waverly, from the other offices. No... he’d have heard about an experienced Thrush agent this lovely. His eyes were drawn to her hands, a trifle larger than expected of someone so small. Long, graceful fingers, devoid of nail polish had the telling calluses that spoke of extensive experience with a gun. He sighed. Hopefully he’d get some answers when she woke up. Meanwhile, he’d already started sorting through what he did know.

There _was_ something strangely compelling about her, something he found somehow more attractive than the dangerous Angelique and she wasn’t even awake! A kind of subliminal connection... _something_.

That’s what he told Mr. Waverly earlier. Thinking back to that meeting, Napoleon sighed again, feeling disconcertingly confused. Standard protocol had this type of patient heavily guarded with physical restraints. The _only_ reason there was just the one guard outside in a token security measure was Napoleon’s insistence about a ‘feeling.’ Mr. Waverly had waited quietly, allowing his top agent to have his say. 

Napoleon ruefully remembered how difficult it had been pleading his case about this ‘feeling.’ Fortunately, on the ‘evidence’ side were the fingerprint results. On a lightening hunch, Napoleon had personally taken the unconscious woman’s fingerprints, having them processed as an ‘unknown person’, and hinting to the lab that it was a test for the rookies. Despite the doubts Waverly obviously harbored, he’d had enough faith in his CEA to allow some latitude. Who else—

Although there was no actual movement, Napoleon suddenly sensed the woman was waking up. He stood up and moved just out of reach, waiting to see what would happen next knowing he could judge what sort of professional she was by how she reacted to this situation. He heard a moan before she relaxed.

Eyes still closed, the woman spoke in a parched whisper, “N-Napoleann?”

“Yes, I’m Napoleon Solo” Napoleon frowned, faintly surprised that she knew who he was, especially in her condition, attributing her odd pronunciation of his name to her accent. He asked his own question. “Now, who are you?” 

The small figure immediately opened her eyes to stare at him in shock.

 

Waking up was painful. _Very_ painful... he hurt in places he’d forgotten existed. Come to think of it, he was surprised to wake up at all. He was in a bed, that much was obvious, but where? Oh. The quiet sounds of monitoring equipment along with the antiseptic smells indicated some kind of infirmary... 

The last thing he remembered was setting the final charge and starting to leave when he’d run into some guards. Taking a quick detour, he’d tried to slip past, but instead, ended up in some kind of x-ray or contaminant room. Once inside, Illya quickly closed the door and looked around the small area. He’d only just noticed the steel walls and lead lining when he realized he wasn’t alone. Huddled in the far corner of the darkened room were two men, who were looking into a small door on the opposite wall. From their expressions, Illya could see that they were terrified of something inside that area. As he moved to conceal himself behind the counter, one of the men turned, and seeing him sucked in a noisy breath. As the other man turned to look, Illya fired instinctively, sleep darts sending the men slumped over in a heap. A scrambling sound informed him whoever was inside the enclosure, had been alerted by the sound of his silenced Special. Remembering the look of terror on the men’s faces, he swiftly crouched down to see the object of their fear. 

Suddenly the room was flooded with light. Blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes, Illya held his breath as he listened from his crouched position.

“What is this?” The voice drew closer, “Oh. It’s Mr. Kuryakin, right? I didn’t expect you here. In fact—” The voice broke off for a moment. “My guess is that this place is scheduled to be destroyed shortly—I seem to recall you having a kind of affinity with explosives.” 

As he was speaking, Illya recognized the voice. Jefferson Conrad, megalomaniac in the extreme, was, nevertheless, a brilliant scientist. Until now, Illya hadn’t realized the doctor was involved with this lab. Deciding to stall for time, he offered some repartee of his own.

“Ah, Doctor Conrad, I should have known it was your hand in this nefarious scheme.” He allowed a regretful note to creep into his voice. “It is really too bad about the bricks.” The apparent non sequitur referred to an earlier encounter between the doctor and himself and by Conrad’s flinch, the barb hit home.

Conrad has having none of it, however, and as he moved closer, Illya could see the doctor’s thumb begin to tighten on some kind of small box in his hand. He started to fire his gun at the doctor when—

Looking around the room, he saw the two men he’d darted upon entering. Seeing no one else, he checked the exit to try and get out, when his internal clock told him he had only four minutes until detonation. Looking around quickly, he could see miscellaneous equipment: a gurney, a couple of protection ‘space’ suits, a small sink, cupboards. Grabbing one of the ‘protection’ suits he rapidly pulled it on. As soon as he was zipped up, he pulled the thin mattress from the gurney and tucked it around himself. Then, with mere seconds left, he hugged himself into a ball, closed his eyes and allowed himself to reflect. He’d trained himself long ago to not think about the ‘might-have-beens.’ Living the kind of life he did, he knew he could die at any time. No regrets. 

But, in these final few seconds, he allowed himself to think about Napoleon. Poor Napoleon. Illya sighed. _He_ was the lucky one this time. There should only be a brief moment of pain at the end, while Napoleon would be the one left behind to grieve. He felt a pang of sorrow for leaving Napoleon like this, but it couldn’t be helped. He wished he could offer some comfort, some final word... irrational, he knew. But...

The concussion from the blast was like nothing he’d ever felt before! The light generated was so bright he could see it through his tightly closed lids, even facing the wall. 

_So this is the end_... he thought as he felt the searing inferno of heat envelop him just before the blast picked him up and slammed him into the wall. 

Everything went black.

 

A jolt of pain seared through him, reminding him he really _was_ alive. Everything hurt and he moaned quietly, unable to stop the sound. Instantly, he sensed the presence of someone moving over to his bedside. This was no threat—he _knew_ that person hovering nearby was Napoleon. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was just fragile enough from his ordeal to feel grateful for Napoleon’s presence and ‘mother hen’ attributes.

Eyes still closed, throat impossibly dry, he asked faintly, “N-Napoleon?”

There was silence for a moment before the answer, “Yes, I’m Napoleann Solo.” 

As the slight difference in the name’s pronunciation and the actual ‘wrongness’ of the voice itself began to penetrate his consciousness, a question was asked, “Now, who are you?” 

The voice was firm and full of well-earned authority.

And distinctly feminine.

 

One of the nurses came in and murmured something to the woman professing to be Napoleann Solo. After sending two additional female guards inside to take up their posts at the door, the woman gave Illya a keen glance, and in a quiet voice (loud enough for Illya to ‘overhear’), ordered the guards to use sleep darts at the smallest threat from the patient. Once she left, Illya Kuryakin carefully checked his surroundings. It was an excellent replica, even to the small flaws in the paint job on the walls. Perfect. Or, it would have been. 

Illya didn’t know anyone ever employed so many male nurses. And that eerie familiarity about it… why, if he didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn the sweet-faced (and where did _that_ come from) brunet with the dimples was Donna—well, except for the fact that this nurse was male and named… Don?

He must be in a coma. Or drugged. Maybe dead?

A presence interrupted his reverie.

“I think we should talk.” Pleasant as her tones were, the words were more an order than a suggestion.

Keeping his eyes closed and body still, he answered, “My name is Kuryakin, Illya Nickovetch. Section 2, Number 2. Serial Number 378659-6.”

“Okay, Illya, if that really _is_ your name, this isn’t an interrogation. I still think we should just ...”she paused, “talk.”

Illya remained silent.

The woman sighed. Abruptly turning around, she walked over to the door and locked it, before walking back beside the bed where she sat down in the nearby chair. She studied him for a moment before pulling out her communicator.

“Open Channel A.” Then, “I’m, blacking out Ward C for the next 60 minutes. On my authority, designation NS-2-1, Code, Security-3.” Closing her communicator and returning it to her inside jacket pocket, she looked back down at the patient. “Okay, let’s talk.”

Illya remained resolute. “My name is Kuryakin, Illya Nickovetch. Section 2, Num-.”

A hand covered his mouth.

“You know, we took your fingerprints.” This was said casually.

A flicker of interest.

“It’s not usual protocol, but... let’s call it a hunch.” She looked at Illya appraisingly. “It might interest you to know that your fingerprints really _do_ belong to Illya Kuryakin, my partner...” she paused, “who happens to be my best friend and... _fe_ -male” 

Illya opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

She continued. “Again, on a hunch, I looked over your back and arms, and ‘surprise,’ you have identical scars in the _same identical places as my partner_.” She moved closer. “In fact, blood type, general features, even the mannerisms I’ve observed are _all_ like my partner.” She crossed her legs and clasped her hands around the crossed knee. Her next words were whispered. “I even, um, _feel_ like you’re Illya... kind of, I don’t know... a resonance, I guess.” Raising her voice back to normal conversational tones, she asked, “So, do you have an explanation for…?” She raised her hands, palms up, in question.

Silence for a full minute before Illya finally turned his head to look at her directly.

“I suppose I should counter with something clever. However, it seems you need to have it spelled out. To begin, if you had any kind of realistic expectation that this…farce would be believed, you should have started with using the proper gender, although, I will admit that presenting yourself as a female Napoleon Solo is unique. Even though you have a slight resemblance to my partner—hair, eye color, dimple in chin, mole on left side—even the sartorial spender he affects—you are still female and _my_ partner is a man. There is no further need to discuss it.”

“I see your point.” The woman wasn’t surprised by Illya’s remarks. “And I just happen to have an idea.” She sat up and leaned closer to Illya to whisper, “If you truly are Illya, the real bonafide article, then we know things about each other... things that _never_ made it into reports.” 

Illya blinked at that. “That would work both ways. If you really _are_ Napoleon, that is.”

They stared at each other, both feeling a connection that seemed at odds with the situation.

Napoleann spoke first, very quietly. “A couple of years ago, we were on a mission in Rumania .” She paused. “The case with Carla Endros, you remember.”

“Go on.” Illya was skeptical.

“It was out in the woods. You were leaning against a tree and had just removed the clip from your automatic.” She paused. “I asked what you were doing. You countered with the statement that I knew you to _not_ be a superstitious woman and that you fully agreed with me that there was a rational, logical explanation for everything that had been going on.” Looking Illya directly in the eyes, she continued, “And then you told me that you had rationally and logically decided to carve a cross into each one of your bullets.”

Illya closed his eyes briefly at the memory. When he spoke, there was the slightest tremor in his voice as he whispered, “Only Napoleon knew that. No one else.” He took a breath. “So, despite, um, appearances, it would seem you really _are_ Napoleon, er, Napoleann.”

A long moment passed before Illya spoke again. “Napoleann?” he swallowed hard, suddenly feeling lost.

The cool tones of the CEA pulled him back. “I think that you need to prove yourself to me, first.”

 

A long moment passed before Illya spoke again. “Napoleon?” she swallowed hard, suddenly feeling lost.

The cool tones of the CEA pulled her back. “I think that you need to prove yourself to me, first.”

Illya thought a moment. “All right... it was the second time we were directly involved with the Baldwins —the altercation at that University in Vermont.” She lowered her voice. Even as her face reddened slightly, her recitation was matter-of-fact. “I found one of those balloon ‘bombs’ still intact, and when two Thrushes ran past me toward one of the police cars, I threw it, intending to stop them, but misjudged the weight and hit the car instead. You were justifiably shocked, as was I. We got away by running up the fire escape. Naturally, you teased me—especially in pointing out that Baldwin could have observed the entire exchange via binoculars. I simply reminded you that I, too, knew things about you… which caused you to agree to omit any mention of the incident…” Her voice trailed off.

“Well,” said the CEA slowly, now at a loss for words, himself.

Illya sighed. “Agreed.”

Napoleon frowned. “I believe you’re really who you say you are. But then, where’s _my_ Illya? Did the explosion change you, or is he out there somewhere…” His voice trailed off.

Illya’s expression turned thoughtful. Finally, speaking slowly, she said, “If the explosion changed me, I would at least have _some_ memories of being a man. Since I do not, and—this feels ‘right’ to me—I will have to say no to that particular idea. But, I think that there very well could be another Illya who is as you say. That would explain the parallels here.” She thought a moment. “We’ll have to investigate further and I think, for now anyway, we will have to _believe_ that this ‘other Illya’ and I have simply switched places.”

Napoleon gave a short, decisive nod before he glanced at his watch. “Time’s up, _Tovarisch_.” He stood up, opened his communicator and started for the door. Looking back at Illya, he stated abruptly, “We’ll have to inform Mr. Waverly.” Twisting his communicator…

 

Looking back at Illya, she stated abruptly, “We’ll have to inform Ms. Waverly.” Twisting her communicator, she asked for Channel A and cancelled ‘lock-down.’ Then she unlocked the door and left.

Napoleann poked her head through the door to Illya’s room in Medical and asked, “Are you ready?” At Illya’s questioning look, she reached back out into the hallway and pulled in a wheelchair. “Before you work yourself into a temper, you should know that we’re expected in Waverly’s office at 12:30 sharp.”

Illya started to get out of bed. “I can walk.” He looked at Napoleann. “I’ll need some clothes.”

“Sorry, Illya, but you haven’t been released from Medical yet and,” she glanced at her watch, “we’re going to have to hurry as it is.” She gestured grandly at the wheelchair. “Your chariot awaits. As to clothes…” she pulled out a bundle from behind the wheelchair with a flourish. “I brought these for you.”

Illya removed his robe, laid it across the hospital bed and began to unbutton his pajama top. Napoleann, determined to treat ‘this’ Illya the same as ‘her’ Illya, ignored the handsome body being revealed as her partner was getting undressed. (Despite accusations to the contrary, she really _could_ control her libido, and she way she felt about her partner was not at all romantic.) She asked, “How are you feeling anyway—and don’t tell me ‘fine’. The truth, please?” 

Illya gave her a ‘look’ just before pulling on the black sweater. Voice somewhat muffled, he said, “Truly, other than a slight headache, I really am fine.”

Napoleann shrugged. Looking at the cast on his arm she asked, “Do you need any help with that?” He had slipped on his trousers and was working on the zipper.

“I’ve had enough practice with this— _unfortunately_.” He grimaced, the task finally done. Slipping the loafers over bare feet he started for the door, only to be blocked by Napoleann holding the wheelchair in his path. Illya glared and folded his arms stubbornly.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Napoleann grinned. “Are _you_ going to tell Ms. Waverly you aren’t coming?” Suddenly serious, she added, “The debriefing, remember?”

Illya’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Although he still felt somewhat shaky, he did not want to appear weak in front of the boss. Expression still grim, but now distress clearly showed in his eyes when he said, “It’s not that far. I can make it. I-I don’t want to go through headquarters in a wheelchair.”

Napoleann sighed. “Okay, look, I’ll get you to the elevator and from there, you can walk. Deal?”

Illya nodded.

The walk from the elevator wasn’t too bad, although Illya was more than ready to sit down once inside the office. Ms. Waverly studied him for a moment. After flashing a quick, appraising glance at her CEA, she sat back comfortably and reached for her pipe.

“Your report, Ms. Solo. We’ll give Mr. Kuryakin a moment to catch his breath before he gives his report.”

Apparently nothing _did_ get by the old woman, and it didn’t matter which universe.

 

“No, ma’am, we only saw the ones we brought out. One of the women died before she could be rescued, though. We had to leave her…” Napoleann finished her report.

Waverly nodded and pointed her pipe at Kuryakin. “Can you add anything else?”

Illya thought a moment. “No, Ma’am. After the explosion I was unconscious until I woke up here. The explosion itself seemed bigger than I’d have thought… but, this is the first time I experienced one from the inside.” Illya was perfectly serious about that, ignoring Napoleann’s suppressed snort of amusement, which was immediately changed into a cough.

“Wait.” Illya looked at Napoleann. “You said there were just two others in the room with me?” At Napoleann’s nod he continued. “But I distinctly remember the doctor was inside the room as well. In fact, I was trying to stop him—” He broke off as he became aware of two sets of astonished eyes staring at him. 

Waverly spoke first. “You never mentioned anything about a doctor.”

Illya, eyes narrowed, frowned as he concentrated on relating the exact details. “It was Dr. Jefferson Conrad. He was already in the room when I got there, putting on one of the protection suits. There was a box, some kind of device, in his hand. I was about to shoot the doctor when his thumb started to tighten on the box.” Illya furrowed his brow in concentration, “Some kind of button... “He widened his eyes, recalling the next part. “Then… I remember seeing the tab technician and someone else… a guard or helper, I’m not sure which. They were looking at the doctor and were terrified…” He shook himself at the memory. “Anyway, I darted them and bolted the door shut. Then I put on one of the remaining protection suits and, well, Ma’am, you know the rest.” Illya rubbed his temples tiredly. “I don’t know why I didn’t remember about Dr. Conrad before.” He glanced at Napoleann who was smiling grimly, obviously remembering the doctor’s machinations from an earlier affair. Looking back at Ms. Waverly, he said quietly, “I can’t remember anything else… I’m sorry.” 

Ms. Waverly harrumphed, “What you _did_ remember is significant, Mr. Kuryakin. Ms. Solo, if you could see that Mr. Kuryakin gets back to Medical safely. I think he could do with some lunch.”

Dismissed, the agents left Waverly’s office. Once outside the door, Napoleann slipped her arm under Illya’s to assist him. Anticipating his reaction, she whispered sotto voce, “Don’t bother making a fuss. Ms. Waverly knows you’re not up to par yet, and if we’re careful, no one else will.”

Illya sighed, keeping his face unreadable, but didn’t pull away.


	3. Act II: Sugar and Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are...normal?

_Finally_ he was released from medical. Because of the uniqueness of the situation, Illya Kuryakin found himself having to re-qualify and re-prove himself in practically everything. First, there were the extensive (and invasive) tests in medical. (This did not improve his disposition, much to Napoleann’s secret delight.) Then, he had to go down to the firing range (perhaps his temper made him sharper—he actually bested his previous scores). One of the oddest bits was unarmed combat practice in the gym; fighting these women within the ranks proved to be exactly the same as fighting their male counterparts. (He hid a grin thinking of Napoleon in the same situation.)

Perhaps the weirdest thing, though, was his first encounter with April and Mark (or rather, August and Marcia). He’d _actually_ recognized them—now that he’d begun to view people through his ‘new’ eyes. 

It was only a matter of days before Illya found himself spending most of his time down in the labs. Very quickly he and Simpson (who was easily as brilliant, inspired, and quirky as her male counterpart) were completely immersed in theory as they discussed the many aspects to this unique situation at great length. Tonight, they were so engrossed they worked straight through dinner (Illya didn’t even notice) and so intent on spinning theories that they were unaware of Napoleann’s entrance. After a few minutes, Napoleann cleared her throat before asking mildly, “Don’t you people get hungry?”

Both heads looked up in astonishment. After seeing the time on the clock, Simpson gasped, “Oh goodness, Ms. S., I didn’t realize it was so late.” As she quickly gathered up her notes, she muttered, “That’s the third time this week—my husband is going to be _furious_...” Rushing over to slip on her coat, she gave a casual wave to Solo and Kuryakin as she started for the door. Pausing a moment, she gave Kuryakin a knowing look over her glasses. “Be sure to lock up, Mr. K.”

Illya nodded absently as he sat quietly, absorbed in thought. After a couple of minutes, Napoleann moved closer to Illya and tapped his shoulder. Startled, Illya’s reflexes took over, but realizing there was no threat, did not actually grip (and break) the hand that touched him before he relaxed. 

Napoleann grinned. “Hey, I thought you were hungry?”

Illya gave a ghost smile as his stomach suddenly gave a rumble. “I could eat, yes.”

“Grab your coat then. My treat.” Napoleann grinned wider at Illya’s startled expression. Correctly interpreting his surprise, she added, “You’ve been released. Waverly gave the okay for you to be” her grin changed into a definite smirk, “Illya Kuryakin.”

Illya grabbed his coat and was out the door, starting down the hallway before Napoleann could change her mind. Moments later, she caught up and were walking, shoulder to shoulder, down the steel-walled corridor to reception. After handing in their badges, they walked outside the tailor shop (‘manned’ by a female Della Floria). 

Solo’s car was parked across the almost empty street. After the usual check for unwelcome additions, they got into the big Chrysler convertible. “Italian okay?” At Illya’s nod, she pulled smoothly into traffic and headed for one of their favorite restaurants.

After a delicious meal, liberally interspersed with glasses of wine, and a truly decadent dessert, Napoleann casually waved her hand to call for the check. Leaving a generous tip, she stood up and took a step toward Illya’s chair, hands outstretched to help him out, when she became aware of Illya’s trademark glare.

“Napoleann...” Mild though his tone was, it still indicated danger. “Exactly what is it you think you are doing?”

Napoleann dropped her hands and blushed. “Sorry, Illya. I, um, sort of forgot that you’re my partner and not… um, some delicate man.”

Illya’s gaze grew sharper for a moment. Then, sighing, “I can forgive such a lapse... once.”

Napoleann gave a lopsided grin. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” She backed away and glanced around the restaurant. “Shall we go?”

“Given that I can manage to walk unassisted, yes.” With that, Illya got up from the table and followed his ‘partner’ outside.

They drove in silence for a while. A light rain made the streets shiny under the lights causing the late-night traffic to snarl. Stopping at a traffic light, Napoleann asked casually, “Did you want to stop at my place for a drink or maybe at yours...? She waited

Illya, who had been idly staring out the window said, “Oh... mine.”

“I wonder if your key will work,” Napoleann speculated.

“If the theories continue to hold true,” Illya responded dryly.

After parking the car almost directly in front of Illya’s Greenwich Village apartment (Napoleann’s luck again) they got out and walked up the three flights of stairs to his door. Coolly, Illya dug out his key and inserted it in the door, automatically disarming the security system. 

Everything worked perfectly.

Letting out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, Illya led the way inside followed closely by Napoleann. Hanging up his coat in the tiny closet, Illya stretched out an arm to get Napoleann’s. “Go ahead, make yourself at home,” said Illya over his shoulder as he walked into the tiny kitchenette to pull a bottle of Stolichnaya out of the freezer and a bottle of Glenlivet out of the cupboard. After pouring glasses for each of them, Illya carried them out to the living room where Napoleann had indeed made herself at home by stretching out on Illya’s ugly, but comfortable couch. Illya handed the whiskey over and sat down in the matching chair. Putting his feet up on the coffee table, he looked around the room for a bit. Draining his glass in one swallow, Illya abruptly sat up. Feet back on the floor, he sat his empty glass on the table and quickly stood up to go down the hallway. Stopping at the bathroom he peeked inside. Everything was just as he’d left _his_ bath—even to the blue towel part way out of the hamper. He blinked, then strode purposefully down to the bedroom. Stopping just inside the door, his eyes darted around the room. A few quick steps and he stood in front of the tall chest of drawers. Opening his shirt drawer, he looked inside and found white dress _blouses_! The drawer below held some black turtlenecks and a bulky cream fisherman’s knit sweater. The slacks drawers held dress pants... for women! He couldn’t imagine _wanting_ to peek inside the underwear drawer. Turning around, he strode to the closet and opened the door. Rummaging through, he found three off-the-rack black suits, a burgundy sport coat, a Soviet Naval uniform inside a garment bag, one really nice custom-tailored suit and some ties... but they were all obviously women’s clothing. Staring in faint shock, he was unaware Napoleann had entered the bedroom until she spoke.

“Illya?”

Without looking at his partner, Illya said dryly, “It appears that I’m most definitely not in Kansas anymore...”

 

A few quick steps and she stood in front of the tall chest of drawers. Opening her shirt drawer, she looked inside and found white dress _shirts_! The drawer below held some black turtlenecks and a bulky cream fisherman’s knit sweater. The slacks drawers held dress pants... for men! She couldn’t imagine _wanting_ to peek inside the underwear drawer. Turning around, she strode to the closet and opened the door. Rummaging through, she found three off-the-rack black suits, a burgundy sport coat, a Soviet Naval uniform inside a garment bag, one really nice custom-tailored suit and some ties... but they were all obviously men’s clothing. Staring in faint shock, she was unaware Napoleon had entered the bedroom until he spoke.

“Illya?”

Without looking at her partner, Illya said dryly, “It appears that I’m most definitely not in Kansas anymore...”

Napoleon stayed with Illya until the wee hours of the morning. Although they drank a bit, most of their time was spent in companionable silence. Finally, though, Napoleon yawned widely and stood up to leave. “I can pick you up in the morning if you want.” offered Napoleon as he stretched out some of the kinks.

Illya looked up startled. “Is it that late?” she asked ruefully, pulling her hand through her hair. She stood up and, looking at Napoleon, offered hesitantly, “You’re welcome to stay the night... like always...” her voice trailed off.

Napoleon grinned. “Tempting as that sounds, right now, sleeping in my own bed sounds even better.” He looked down at his trousers as he pulled on his suit jacket. “Besides,” he added, wrinkling his nose in disgust, “this suit has seen better days.”

Illya grinned, her face carefully turned away from Napoleon, but only said dryly, “Far be it from me to comment on your attire...”

As Napoleon reached the door he asked, “So what about it? Do you want a ride in?”

Illya hesitated a moment. “I think I’d like to take the subway.” Running her hand through her hair again, making it stand on end, she tried to explain. “As familiar or rather, _un_ familiar as this all is, I think I’d like to see for myself. The changes... or, the... “Her voice trailed off.

Napoleon gave her arm a squeeze (just like he’d give his male partner). “Illya, you don’t have to explain. I know it’s weird for me so it’s really got to be doubly weird for you. Look, I’ll see you at work tomorrow, okay?”

Illya gave a small smile. “Tomorrow. Goodnight Napoleon.”

“Goodnight.” Napoleon left the apartment, shutting the door after him.

 

Napoleann gave his arm a squeeze (just like she’d give her female partner). “Illya, you don’t have to explain. I know it’s weird for me so it’s really got to be doubly weird for you. Look, I’ll see you at work tomorrow, okay?”

Illya gave a small smile. “Tomorrow. Goodnight Napoleann.”

“Goodnight.” Napoleann left the apartment, shutting the door after her.

 

The next morning, Napoleann was drinking her second cup of coffee, carefully not watching the clock, while attempting to read through reports. It wasn’t like Illya to be late. In fact, she, er, _he_ was usually early. She was just about to call down to reception when the office door opened and Illya walked in. Carefully keeping her eyes on the top report on her desk, Napoleann took a sip of her coffee.

“You do not need to pretend you were not waiting for me, Napoleann.” Illya’s soft voice was casual.

Napoleann looked up and studied her ‘partner’ closely. Shaking her head, she growled, “It isn’t fair. You had as little sleep as I did- probably less, but you don’t show it.”

“Superior genes.” Illya smirked. Then sitting down at ‘his’ desk, he slipped on the glasses that were laying on the side of the desk before pulling out the first report to work on it. He’d gotten as far as the first couple of paragraphs when he suddenly dropped his pen and let the report slip from his hands. “ _Bozhe moi_...” he whispered.

Napoleann looked over in concern. “What is it, Illya?” she asked.

“Th-the glasses. Napoleann, these are _her_ glasses... yet they fit me perfectly... the prescription... everything!”

Napoleann let out a long breath before saying softly, “Yet another proof of your theory.” She smiled encouragingly

After a moment, Illya removed the glasses and laid them back down before looking up at Napoleann. “I want to—”

The phone rang.

“Kuryakin,” said Illya, answering the phone. Silence as he listened a moment, then, “I’ll be right down.” Hanging up the phone he said, “I’m going down to the lab.” Napoleann nodded in acknowledgement, busy with her own desk-full of reports.

Illya hastily placed the reports back inside the “in” box on his desk before leaving.

After he left, Napoleann quickly drained her cup, waiting to make sure Illya was gone before getting up herself. She planned to find out from Dr. Kovan what was going on with Illya. To her ‘familiar’ eye, he still looked much too pale not to mention the unusual, daily visits to medical. As CEA she planned to exert her authority and get some answers.

Illya stopped by the lavatory on the way to the lab. Inside the stall, he heard a group of men come in. One walked in one of the stalls while the other two were at the sinks. 

“Oh, I’m _so_ happy for you!” said one of the men.

“Thanks. We’re excited about it, even though it’s a bit sooner than we’d planned, but, you know how those things go,” the other man responded in a happy tone.

“This is your first, isn’t it Bob?” asked the man from the stall.

“Yes.” answered Bob, the one who had received the congratulations.

Illya flushed the toilet, came out of his stall, and walked over to the sink to wash his hands. Curious, he asked, “What are the congratulations for?”

Bob Miller, a tall, slim man with light brown, curly hair blushed. “We’re expecting our first child.”

Illya smiled. “Well, then, congratulations are definitely in order. Um, when will the happy event occur?”

The blushing man got redder. “The doctor says in June.” He sighed. “That only gives me maybe two more months.”

Illya was confused. “Two more months?”

“Yes,” Bob answered. “U.N.C.L.E. has a strict policy about working during pregnancies.”

Illya was still confused, but nodded sagely to cover. Drying his hands, he said before leaving, “Well, then, good luck.” He was still mulling over the odd conversation when he arrived in Simpson’s office. Seeing Simpson was on the phone, he walked over to the lab assistant, Eric.

“Eric, do you know Bob Miller?”

Eric smiled. “Bob? We have lunch together pretty regularly. Is he okay?”

“As far as I know... um, he was saying he and his wife are expecting a baby.”

Eric’s smile grew broader. “Yes, isn’t it exciting?” His smile dimmed a bit. “I don’t know where they’re going to find a replacement, though. He often fills in with translations when they’re short-handed.” He frowned slightly. “It’s too bad U.N.C.L.E. is so strict. Some places allow men to work right up until the delivery.”

“Right up until—” Illya broke off suddenly. “Um, yes.” He turned back to see Simpson still on the phone so he walked over to the library of reference books Simpson kept on hand. Studying the overflowing bookcase, he finally pulled out a book on human anatomy. Thumbing through the book, he stopped at the reproductive section, scanned over the pages and paled. _Here, in this universe, the men had the babies..._

 

Erica’s smile grew broader. “Yes, isn’t it exciting?” Her smile dimmed a bit. “I don’t know where they’re going to find a replacement, though. She often fills in with translations when they’re short-handed.” She frowned slightly. “It’s too bad U.N.C.L.E. is so strict. Some places allow women to work right up until the delivery.”

“Right up until—” Illya broke off suddenly. “Um, yes.” She turned back to see Simpson still on the phone so she walked over to the library of reference books Simpson kept on hand. Studying the overflowing bookcase, she finally pulled out a book on human anatomy. Thumbing through the book, she stopped at the reproductive section, scanned over the pages and paled. _Here, in this universe, the women had the babies..._

Abruptly Illya left and rushed down to medical for another test, this one of _her_ choosing. She’d suddenly realized that unlike the other women of this universe, she didn’t have the same reproductive organs.

Although outwardly a woman in every sense, her internal reproductive system more closely resembled the males here. This would also help explain her physical strength which was more along the basis of comparison to the men here as well.

By this time, Illya was starting to feel somewhat faint. Deciding she was hungry, she quickly dressed and walked over to Dr. Kovan’s office. She was about to knock when she heard a familiar timbre inside. What was Napoleon doing here? 

“...so you’re still willing to field certify her?”

Dr. Kovan’s response was mumbled.

“Okay, let me know if you learn anything more.”

The door started to open and for an instant, Illya thought about ducking out of sight, but decided to confront her partner directly. 

Napoleon was startled to see Illya just outside the door. “Oh, uh, hi Illya. Er, would you like to get lunch somewhere?”

Illya glared at Napoleon. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was very quiet but had a dangerous edge to it.

Dr. Kovan looked at his watch. “I have a slight errand,” he murmured, “Why don’t you use my office...”

Still glaring at Napoleon, Illya said, “Thank you, doctor, but I believe we’re finished here.” Illya strode purposefully to their shared office, pulled on her suit jacket and checked her desk. Locking it, she reached for her overcoat.

“Where are you going? Napoleon asked quietly.

“I am leaving early.” Looking at Napoleon boldly, she demanded, “Is this a problem?”

“It’s not like you to run away,” stated Napoleon bluntly.

Illya shrugged. “Going home is not my definition of running away. I am tired and I am hungry. Those things will be taken care of at my apartment.” She looked around the office. “If I am needed, I can be reached by communicator.”

“Illya,” Napoleon sighed, “we need to talk. Dr. Kovan—”

“Napoleon...” Illya’s voice was low. “If you must insist on talking about this, it will _not_ be here.”

“Okay.” Napoleon tidied his own papers rapidly. As he locked his desk, he said, “We can pick up something and eat at my place.”

Illya was about to say ‘no’ just on general principles, but realized she was still feeling... off. The shot she’d had first thing this morning had not made any perceptible difference. Maybe food would help. And, much as she hated to admit it, Napoleon’s place was a better location for this discussion than her ‘own’ place. At least there, she wouldn’t have to see all the weirdly similar-but-different clothing.

 

Illya was about to say ‘no’ just on general principles, but realized he was still feeling... off. The shot he’d had first thing this morning had not made any perceptible difference. Maybe food would help. And, much as he hated to admit it, Napoleann’s place was a better location for this discussion than his ‘own’ place. At least there, he wouldn’t have to see all the weirdly similar-but-different clothing.

They stopped for Chinese take-out. Setting the bags on the table, Napoleann filled the kettle to boil water for tea. As Illya began to set out the numerous cartons on the table, Napoleann brought over plates and silverware. Walking back to the cupboard, she pulled out a teapot and cups and as she searched, found an unopened bag of ginger snaps that she also pulled out. As she put some out on a plate, she asked, “Do you want a drink?” as she walked over to the refrigerator and looked inside the freezer. “I still have that bottle of Stolichnaya.” 

“What is that saying you use... ah, ‘is the Pope Catholic’?” Illya quirked the corners of his mouth up in a ‘ghost’ grin.

They settled into a comfortable silence as they ate.

Finally, the food gone, Napoleann pushed herself up and started to clear the table. Illya crushed the empty boxes and threw them away as Napoleann picked up their drinks and carried them into the living room where she placed them on the coffee table. Illya hesitated, then picked up the plate of ginger snaps and set them out by the drinks. Sitting down on the couch, he reached for a cookie and bit into it. Purchased at one of the local bakeries, they were fresh, the ginger flavor sharp.

“Okay, Illya. Let’s talk.” Napoleann saw no point in delaying their discussion. “What exactly is going on?”

Illya looked into his glass, refusing to meet Napoleann’s eyes. Napoleann waited, giving him time. She knew it was difficult for the Russian to open up and talk, particularly when related to deeply personal matters. Studying the tense figure, Napoleann waited, wishing there was more she could do. Her patience was finally vindicated. When Illya brought his head up, Napoleann could see what looked like despair cross his face for a moment.

After a sigh, Illya said ruefully, “You’re not going to let this go are you?”

Napoleann shook her head. “No,” she answered softly.

Another sigh. After a moment Illya muttered something under his breath before saying with an edge in his voice, “I _was_ going to tell you… I just wanted some more time”

His tone sent a small frisson of fear into Napoleann. Whatever Illya was going to tell her was not good.

In a flat tone, Illya continued. “We’ve established through extensive tests, that I really am ‘Illya.’ Dr. Kovan has run a great many tests as well.” A familiar sound of irritation had crept into his voice at that last remark. Returning to the flat, unemotional timbre he continued. “While most things have been the same: geography, codes, equipment, structures—even people—except for gender–all have followed the same rules. Physics apply here in obvious things like inertia, gravity, electricity. These all follow the same principles and reactions in both universes.

“However, there are also significant differences. Gender, as we know, followed by clothing, personal names, and... biology. Biology seems to be the most crucial.” He waited a moment as Napoleann nodded her understanding. With another sigh, he continued. “Biologically, I’m not simply a different gender here. I have internal differences as well. For example, in my universe, _women_ have babies. In addition to being less muscular, smaller height, hands, feet, bone structure... _they_ are the ones who reproduce. _Here_ , it is the opposite. Napoleann, my body is not like the men here.” He grimaced. “I _cannot_ get pregnant.”

Napoleann broke in, gentle and reassuring, “Illya, not everyone can have children. Sometimes it…” Seeing Illya’s grim expression, she stopped.

“There’s more. Other things within my body are not functioning in the same manner as in the men in this universe. Because of this my body is beginning to shut down.” He looked down at his feet. “I am dying.”

Napoleann was stunned. She thought she’d lost her partner in that terrible explosion, only to have this Illya appear. Finding the same feelings of safety, rapport... friendship, she found herself accepting this ‘new’ Illya as her partner. Definitely _not_ a replacement, since... well, Illya was Illya. Even though she’d quickly established it was the same intangible and unusual rapport that she had with her ‘usual’ partner, there were enough differences so she’d never confuse the two. Losing Illya— _either_ Illya—was just not an option and she was damned if she was going to lose Illya again!

Napoleann jumped up and began pacing agitatedly. “No!” she whispered fiercely, “You are _not_ going to die! There must be something...”

Illya watched for a moment before reaching out and stopping her by grasping her forearm. He maintained the connection, eyes locked, until Napoleann relaxed and sat back down on the couch. 

They sat together in silence, deep in thought as they sipped their drinks.

Finally, Napoleann said, “So, that’s why you’ve been meeting with Simpson? To try and figure out what to do?”

Illya nodded. “After Dr. Kovan’s findings, Simpson and I believe it’s because I don’t belong here in this universe.” He shrugged casually, “So, I have to go back.”

It made sense of course.

“Any ideas?” Napoleann kept her voice steady and conversational. Just like any regular planning session. Just like Illya’s life wasn’t… No! There _had_ to be something that could be done. “What does Simpson say?” she asked abruptly.

“Simpson? Oh, we’ve tossed some ideas around.”

“Such as?”

Illya tried to explain, “Oh, mostly speculation about the possibilities of reversing the effects. If I could be returned, the theory is that the other Illya would also return. Then, and this is all supposition, the effects should right themselves and all would be as it should. Or there is the—”

“How?” interrupted Napoleann.

“What? Oh…” Illya sounded distracted. “We have no idea.” Seeing Napoleann’s stunned look, he elaborated, “Napoleann—this is all strictly theory. Besides,” he gave a small shrug, “at this point of venture, the best case scenario would be to use the doctor’s device… if he still has it and it still functions.”

Napoleann took a breath. “So… we must locate the doctor and relieve him of his device—correct?”

Illya gave a sideways look. “Yes, that is essentially the idea.”

Napoleann rubbed her hands together, “Well then, let’s get started. We have a doctor to find and a comrade to save!”

“Napoleann.” Illya’s flat tones cut into Napoleann’s exuberance. “Napoleann, while it is all very grand to find Dr. Conrad in and of itself, Ms. Waverly will never agree to us dropping everything just to bring him in. We are not vigilantes. And…” here the Russian’s voice faltered slightly, “there is no way she would authorize the expenses and extensive use of U.N.C.L.E. resources for one individual.”

“No!” Napoleann was emphatic.

Illya finished his drink and stood up. "It's getting late. I should go."

Napoleann abruptly set her own glass down as she stood up as well. “Illya…” her mouth suddenly dry she rasped out, “I…” Napoleann stopped suddenly at a loss for words. What do you say when your partner is all too accurate in his assessment of an impossible situation.

 

Illya finished her drink and stood up. "It's getting late. I should go."

Napoleon abruptly set his own glass down as he stood up as well. “Illya…” his mouth suddenly dry he rasped out, “I…” Napoleon stopped suddenly at a loss for words. What do you say when your partner is all too accurate in her assessment of an impossible situation.

They stood that way for a few minutes. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Napoleon spoke in a quiet, determined tone. “We will find a way to beat this, Illya, whatever it takes. I’ll see to it personally.”   
Napoleon was furious at the circumstances and the frustration he felt at his inability to fix it made him even angrier.

Illya quirked a tiny ironic grin. “Napoleon, only _you_ would have the immense ego and audacity to think you can control the very elements.” A heel click and sharp incline of her head was her deference to the ‘authority’ Napoleon had wielded.

Napoleon offered a lopsided grin. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

Illya merely raised an eyebrow and left.


	4. Act III: Snips and Snails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are not going as smoothly as hoped. And, there's a new danger!

The next morning at dawn, Napoleann tentatively called Illya to see if he wanted a ride in. She knew that after last night’s emotional confrontation and confidences the very private Russian would close up tighter than a sealed drum. 

After the initial, “Kuryakin.” there was silence.

“Illya, about last night... ” began Napoleann.

“No.” Illya’s voice was flat and very definite. The subject was most definitely not to be revisited

“Okay, then we won’t talk about it.” Napoleann paused before adding firmly, “But unless you’re calling in sick—which I would not recommend under the circumstances—we still have a job to do.” She waited.

Finally, “All right.” His voice was neutral. “What time should I be ready?”

“I’ll be there at 7:30.” Napoleann kept her voice just as bland.

 

The drive in should have been awkward, but as they drove, the tension gradually relaxed. Venturing to break the silence, Napoleann said, “We have time to stop and pick up coffee and croissants at that bakery down on 37th and Lexington… if you’d like.”

Illya nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Just like that, they were back on their old footing.

Once inside their office, they began working on the numerous reports which were still unfinished. Illya was typing up his report of the ‘switch-out’ situation when the phone rang. Napoleann answered; it was Lise Rogers, Ms. Waverly’s secretary, on the phone.

“Ms. Solo,” he purred, “You and Mr. Kuryakin are to see Ms. Waverly at 9:00 a.m. sharp.”

“Napoleann raised her eyebrows. “Okay, Lise, we’ll be there.”

Hanging up the phone she speculated idly, “I wonder what’s up. We meet with Ms. Waverly at 9::00.” 

Illya said hopefully, “Maybe it’s a mission.”

Napoleann grinned. “Yeah, I’m starting to feel hemmed in.” She looked at her desk which only had a few reports to check. Giving a mock frown of disapproval, she said, “This doesn’t even look like my desk.” Giving a sideways look at Illya, she added, “At least, not when my partner is on the ‘sick list’.” She got up to get yet another cup of coffee.

Looking at his own desk (where everything was exactly like his ‘real’ desk), he muttered, “It’s about time you did your own paperwork.”

“I heard that.” responded Napoleann.

Alexandra Waverly wasted no time in preliminaries. The moment they were seated, she spun the table around so that the folders were in front of them. “You’re to go to Norfolk, Ohio. Dr. Conrad, or rather the doctor’s assistant, Ms. Randall, has been spotted. Hopefully, you can learn more about Dr. Conrad’s whereabouts. I leave it to you to best decide how to accomplish that once you find her. 

“Mr. Rogers has the maps you will need. I would suggest you leave as soon as you can check a vehicle out from the garage.”

Napoleann and Illya looked through the reports and surveillance photographs. 

“How much force may we use?” asked Napoleann quietly.

Waverly looked grim. “Naturally, we want to find Dr. Conrad. We must find out more about this... moving between ‘wherever’. Something this powerful must be removed from Thrush’s hands. Potential consequences are too horrible to contemplate.

“Cleveland and Detroit will be on standby, should you require their assistance. For now, though, perhaps something less overt...”

“Yes, ma’am.” acknowledged Napoleann.

“Check in with the Cleveland office for any route updates. Oh, and Ms. Simpson is waiting for you down in the lab with some special equipment Section VIII has prepared.”

Seeing they were dismissed, Napoleann and Illya left for the lab downstairs.

 

“Yes, sir.” acknowledged Napoleon.

“Check in with the Cleveland office for any route updates. Oh, and Mr. Simpson is waiting for you down in the lab with some special equipment Section VIII has prepared.”

Seeing they were dismissed, Napoleon and Illya left for the lab downstairs.

 

Having left Cleveland behind, they were now driving the large, powerful sedan on the empty, asphalt road gave Napoleon time to think. After the emotional seesaw of the night before, it was a relief to be back on his usual standing with his partner. Since it was finally decided Illya was still Number 2, Section 2, despite gender, they could get on with their work as well as work on a way to switch the two Illyas back. At least this assignment could give them the much-desired chance to save both Illyas.

He was suddenly aware of two blue eyes, staring at him with a definite smirk.

Bringing his thoughts back to the job at hand, Napoleon slowed the car down to the slower speed according to the new speed limit and tried to remember the name on that last sign…

Illya’s cool tones broke into his thoughts. “In case you’re wondering, Napoleon, we take a right after the bridge.”

Napoleon nodded his thanks even as he heard Illya’s suppressed snort of amusement.

As they came into one of the small towns along the two-lane highway, Napoleon realized he was starting to get hungry. Glancing over at his ‘partner’ who was laying back in the seat sleeping, he was wondering about the possibilities of finding a decent restaurant out here in this rural community when Illya’s quiet voice broke into this thoughts.

“What about that place—The Beehive?”

Napoleon was no longer surprised at Illya’s ability to not only sleep through just about anything, but also his/her ability to wake up surreptitiously. Pulling off into the large, gravel parking lot, Napoleon spotted the sign for The Beehive. He’d already noticed the other restaurant- a large white building with black awnings over the windows and neatly-trimmed shrubs underneath them. A professionally-lettered sign indicated the name of the place as ‘The Norfolk Dining Establishment.’ ‘The Beehive’ had obviously started out as an old house and had a hand-lettered sign proclaiming its name.

“Why The Beehive?” asked Napoleon as he eyed the fancier place.

“Look at the license plates.” said Illya.

Napoleon looked. Although the more upscale restaurant had more cars in the parking lot, they were mostly out-of-state plates. The Beehive lot were Ohio plates, all with similar number prefixes indicating they were from the same area—probably locals. Shrugging in mock surrender, Napoleon put the car back into gear and drove over to the smaller, more casual restaurant.

Once inside, they seated themselves in a back corner where they could easily watch the door. The décor was a haphazard one with unpolished wood, the dining room obviously converted from several rooms, but well-scrubbed. A tiny, hand-printed sign promised ‘Good Food, Poor Service.’ Despite that dire warning, a plump woman with a friendly smile brought sparkling glasses of ice water over to them with simple, one-page menus.

The choices were limited: fried chicken, several different cuts of steaks, and hamburgers. The sides were limited as well—salad, corn, peas, beets, potatoes (mashed, home fries, baked) and soup of the day (chicken noodle or bean). The drinks offered were coffee, tea, milk, or shakes. Pie or shortcake completed the dessert choices. It didn’t take long to decide. A ‘Steak for Two’ was in bold print and since it promised sides for each party, Illya agreed to share with Napoleon (she could always eat again later).

After a fairly short wait, the woman came back for their order. Napoleon deferred to Illya who ordered the Steak for Two, medium rare, salad with Italian dressing, baked potato, corn, and coffee. Napoleon chose the same sides except for the salad which he ordered with Russian dressing (he happened to like this dressing and usually ordered it just to get Illya’s reaction). 

In what proved to be a longer-than-usual wait (did they have to grow the corn and butcher the cow?) the food began to arrive. The salads were huge! It looked like the cook had simply taken a crisp head of lettuce, chopped it in half, added a chopped tomato to each plate and served it. Illya dug in with relish, pleased to have a decent portion. When the salads were finished (Napoleon put most of his aside), plates containing gigantic baked potatoes, burst open from roasting, with a huge dollop of butter melting on top. A soup-sized bowl of sour cream on the side was followed almost immediately by two large ears of corn, also with a generous serving of butter. Finally, a huge platter (the kind Napoleon would use for a Thanksgiving turkey) arrived with the largest steak either of them had ever seen! Two inches thick, juices running and barely able to fit on the platter. Illya gave the server one of her delighted smiles and began to slice off a plate-sized portion. Cutting off a bite, she sampled it and sat back for a moment, savoring the flavor. Nodding her approval, she began to eat in earnest.

Napoleon, somewhat stunned by the amount of food, cut off a smaller portion for himself. After tasting it he smiled; this was without a doubt, one of the best steaks he had ever eaten. Perfectly cooked, succulent, juicy, and so tender, he could almost cut it with a fork- _and_ without the cover-up use of meat tenderizers. The corn tasted as if it had just been picked.

Finally finished (Illya eating the lion’s share as usual), the woman walked over, smiling. Giving a special smile to Illya she asked, “Do either of you want dessert? We have apple pie just out of the oven.”

Napoleon just groaned. Illya, however, perked up. “Yes, I’d like the pie.”

The woman smiled and bustled away to fill their order.

When Illya _finally_ finished eating (the pie slice had been a full quarter of the pie and was definitely home-made) she declared she was full and eased out her belt a notch. Napoleon merely raised an eyebrow and pulled out his wallet. 

 

When Illya _finally_ finished eating (the pie slice had been a full quarter of the pie and was definitely home-made) he declared he was full and eased out his belt a notch. Napoleann merely raised an eyebrow and pulled out her wallet. 

 

The lead was a dead-end. Ms. Randall’s body was found in an empty lab which had been deliberately destroyed, and by its appearance, this had happened weeks ago. Unfortunately time and weather eradicated anything that might have been missed. They sifted through the rubble for a time before finally conceding defeat.

 

After hours of driving, they arrived at the Cleveland office, tired and dirty, their only thought to find a bed and crawl into it. Both were feeling the effects of the weary drive, their failure weighing like lead on their shoulders. Not even the handsome receptionist could garner her ‘famous’ smile as Napoleann handed in the car keys.

“Billy,” Solo had automatically registered the attractive young man’s name, “could you be an angel and tell us where we can get a place to sleep, maybe a bite to eat?”

“Sure.” Billy fluttered his eyelashes, “Oh—” he broke off, “you’ll need to see Jonny Martin. He’s Ms. Farnsworth’s night secretary. I’ll let him know you’re on your way down.

Napoleann and Illya gave a collective sigh, received their badges and went inside to see what the secretary of Cleveland’s section head had for them.

“Ms. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin.” Mr. Martin, a tall man with unruly long, chestnut curls just past his shoulders and dark blue eyes magnified by thick glasses, was all business. “You’re to catch the U.N.C.L.E. jet to New York immediately. Handing a leather portfolio to Napoleann, he glanced at his watch. “Here’s your brief. You’d better hurry. Renee Rathers is waiting for you in the sublevel garage.”

Hiding her surprise, Napoleann took the brief, thumbed through to the last page which held Waverly’s personal stamp and closed it. Nodding her thanks, she began walking briskly toward the elevator, Illya close behind.

The ride to the airport was speedy. They were ushered directly onto the field, where they were on the plane and in the air in record time. Once the seatbelt light went off, Illya unfastened his, and reached over to a conveniently-placed hamper, where he took out some sandwiches and bottles of beer, splitting them between Napoleann and himself. The food was welcome, and after eating one of the sandwiches and chasing it down with the beer, Napoleann pulled open the brief. She read it through twice before handing it to Illya with a heavy sigh.

Still finishing his second sandwich, Illya took the brief, and squinting slightly, began reading the three short pages. He stopped mid-bite and paled noticeably at the end of the second page. Finally, looking up at Napoleann, he whispered, “Can this be true?”

“Ms. Waverly obviously believes it is.” Napoleann was grim.

They were silent as they worked through the dire implications outlined in the documents.

Illya finally broke the silence. “This... this _obscenity_ must be stopped! When it was just my life and the doctor’s...” His voice trailed off. “The whole world?”

“How can this one change affect the stability of the entire world?” Napoleann wondered as she slowly swirled the remaining inch of beer around in the bottle.

Illya grimaced. Until this moment, he hadn’t really reflected on this aspect of the phenomena. It was _his_ presence here that was destroying the world— as dramatic and egotistical as that sounded, _he_ was the problem… 

Napoleann looked up and realizing her partner’s distress, reached out a comforting hand. “Illya? It’s not your fault. In fact, you’ve been spending every free moment you have in trying to change it back.”

Not realizing how long he’d sat there, reflecting on the horror, Illya stared blankly at his partner before finally muttering, “The Chaos or Butterfly Theory, Napoleann.” At Napoleann’s questioning expression, he went on, “The premise that a simple change, such as whether a butterfly flaps its wings, could affect the weather on the other side of the world. Obviously, _my_ being here instead of the ‘correct’ Illya could have— _does_ have huge ramifications.”

Napoleann gripped Illya’s arm firmly and gave it a small shake. “Illya, by that account, _anything_ could affect the cost of tea in China, and at _any_ time. _You_ , my friend, have no reason to feel guilty.” She smiled encouragingly before adding briskly, “And now, we are going to relax as much as we can for the next, um” glancing at her watch, she made a face, “twenty minutes before we land.” Peering inside the hamper, she brought out the last sandwich and gave half to Illya, keeping the other half for her. “Here,” she said, “we’d better ‘clean our plates’.”

Illya gave a wan smile, but bit into the sandwich. Neither spoke for the remainder of the flight.

Arriving in New York, the sky was just beginning to lighten with the false dawn. At 5:30 a.m., it was far too early to see actual color from the sunrise, but stars were no longer visible and landscapes were more distinct. Traffic was practically nonexistent at this hour, so the U.N.C.L.E. taxi was able to get them inside the underground garage in record time. Very quickly, the two agents were ushered into Waverly’s office.

Without preamble, she spoke, “Ms. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. You’ve read the reports?” At their nods she continued, “I just received the latest intelligence from our San Francisco office. Two earthquakes have been reported. They were fortunately small, but, like the other phenomena, there was absolutely no indication beforehand. The resultant tidal waves have caused tens of thousands of dollars in property damages and business loss. So far, no lives have been reported lost, which was propitious. 

“Nor is this the first of such incidents. Until a few hours ago, we believed the reports of natural disasters to be just that. And, even though the number of incidents was high, we had no reason to suspect anything amiss…until now.” 

The agents looked at each other a moment before Solo asked the question, “What was it exactly that alerted us?” she asked.

Ms. Waverly harrumphed. “Simple luck.” After a moment she continued. “One of our agents was on vacation skiing in the Alps when an avalanche came up. Fortunately, she escaped unscathed, but _there was no warning and no reason_. Standish reported that nothing should have caused any such avalanche. Other witnesses, all experienced climbers and skiers concur. There was no sound, vibration… nothing. And, all the experts, both on the scene, and who have read the reports, assure us the snow conditions were not conducive to any kind of avalanche.” She paused, allowing the agents to take in the new information before continuing. “We have had the science sections from all over the world conferring on this, and we believe we may have a probable solution.” She pointed her pipe at Illya. “You must return or, at the very least, you must leave this, um, dimension. And it must be done quickly. Things are already beginning to escalate.”

There was a long silence. Finally Napoleann broke it by saying quietly, “I take it this means Dr. Conrad has to be found and sent back as well.” Waverly nodded. Napoleann continued, “If the doctor won’t cooperate, then we...” she hesitated.

“Then we will have to eliminate him, and if necessary, myself as well,” Illya finished the thought steadily.

At Napoleann’s look of horror, he added in an almost inaudible, but steady voice, “To save a world, no, it would be _two_ worlds... to save them would be more than enough payment for one life.”

Napoleann started to protest, but sank back in defeat. She knew he was right.

“We shall hope, Mr. Kuryakin, that Dr. Conrad will indeed be forthcoming with his cooperation in this.” said Ms. Waverly quietly.

 

Napoleon started to protest, but sank back in defeat. He knew she was right.

“We shall hope, Ms. Kuryakin, that Dr. Conrad will indeed be forthcoming with her cooperation in this.” said Mr. Waverly quietly.

Once inside their shared office, Napoleon found himself unable to settle. Pacing for a few minutes, he stopped and looked hard at Illya who sitting at her desk, pulled off the top file from the stack which had been sent down to their office. Sensing her partner’s eyes on her, Illya looked up. 

“Illya—”

“Napoleon—”

Illya said, “You first.”

“No, no, you go ahead,” said Napoleon.

“No, you go—I insist,” Illya said steadily as she held Napoleon’s gaze.

Napoleon started to demur, and then raised his hands in defeat a moment before putting them flat on his desk as if to steady himself. “Illya. You know, of course, that I will do _anything_ within my power to keep you safe—anything!”

Illya was startled by the undercurrent of steel in Napoleon’s voice and started to speak, but a glance at her partner’s determined expression stopped her. She waited. After a moment, Napoleon spoke again, this time in his calmer, more ‘usual’ tone. “So, what were you going to say, Tovarisch?”

Illya gave a shrug before saying quietly, “Napoleon, we have already said everything we need to say to each other.” She looked down at her hands which were now clasped around each other. “By ‘we’ I mean your Illya and you, as well as my Napoleann and I.” There was a long silence as the agents both remembered those shared histories. When Illya spoke again, it was in a business-like tone. Gesturing at the file in front of her, she said, “I have compiled some information about Dr. Conrad. Hopefully, this will help us figure out where the doctor might be and what she is currently planning.”

As she slipped on her glasses, she sensed Napoleon moving behind her. Assuming he was there to look over her shoulder, she looked up in surprise as he squeezed her shoulder almost painfully tight.

Releasing her before she could protest, he gave a lopsided smile, and in a steady voice (well, steady to anyone who didn’t know him as well as she did), said, “Okay, what do you have?”

Looking at the file, Illya began to read the salient points aloud.

“Dr. Jefferson Lynn Conrad. Born August 2, 1921, parents: mother Jerroldine Alexia Conrad, father James Marcus Abbott Conrad. Current age is 45, height 5’11”, weight approximately 195 lbs. Thinning brown hair and light grey eyes—almost colorless in appearance. Father committed suicide in 1929 after the Stock Market Crash. Two sisters. Leslie born in 1920 and Shirley in 1927. Leslie was killed by her husband, a former police lieutenant, in 1944 while he was cleaning his gun. It was ruled an accidental homicide. Shirley was killed in 1930 when she pulled a boiling pan of water over on herself. Conrad was supposed to be watching her.

“His flat feet gave him 4-F Exemption. He has a Bachelor of Science degree from Central Michigan University in 1942, majoring in accounting, with a minor in physics. He received a Master’s degree in Education from Wayne State University in 1945. He purchased a 20’ sailboat, and sailed down the Coast to Florida where he lived for a year, returning to Michigan in 1947 when his mother died. He picked up his Doctorate in Physics in 1950 from the University of Michigan, and hired in as an accountant with Youngblood and Associates, a minor accounting firm which did free-lance work.

“In 1952 he officially joined Thrush and in 1955 he left the accounting firm. Afterward, it was discovered that he’d embezzled over half a million dollars, but all charges were summarily dismissed—probably because of his connection with Thrush. The accounting firm was dissolved in 1956.

“Conrad dropped out of sight until 1961 when he became part of the team which helped develop Thrush’s ultimate computer. There were vague rumors referencing his work in ultrasonics as well as experimental work with energy fields”

Napoleon sighed. “Anything personal? Hobbies? Maybe some nice clean blackmail?”

“He smokes Marijuana as well as French cigarettes, and has a weakness for really good chocolates.” Illya took off her glasses and tapped one of the earpieces against her cheek. “I believe him to be a serious misogynist, or perhaps a closeted homosexual. He has a violent temper against women, and has had charges brought up against him. The charges were always dropped. The women changed their minds.”

“I suppose we could start by interviewing some of those women. I’d like to know why they changed their minds.”

Illya had replaced her glasses and was flipping through the documents. She pulled out one. “It seems all of those women have disappeared.”

“Oh? When was the last case?”

“Last year. Hmm, this is odd. Apparently, women were stopping over on a regular basis to clean his house, cook favorite meals, warm his bed... the usual. They rarely stayed the night. One affair lasted for two years—um, Julie Boggart. It doesn’t say what happened, but she was given a nice promotion at one of the local Satraps.” She tapped the paper. “This is weird. Apparently one of his ‘conquests’ Shelley, um, Klein, rated his ‘performance’ as a three, scale one to ten, which she confided to her best friend Dianne. Coincidently, she was fired from her job a week later.” She stopped finally. “I’m not really sure how this can help…”

Napoleon sighed. “Look, _anything_ we know about Conrad will help.” He thought a moment, “You didn’t mention hobbies. Doesn’t he have any?”

Illya snorted. “Not unless you count using women as a hobby.”

Napoleon made a face. “Noooo. I don’t suppose that will help.” He reviewed what Illya had read. “You said something about _good_ chocolate. Do you know what kind he prefers?”  
;  
Illya flipped through the pages to see if she could find anything. “Yes, he prefers Leonides chocolates from Brussels.”

“Mmmm, nice choice.” His face brightened, “ _and_ somewhat hard to acquire.”


	5. Act IV: Boys Will Be...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are becoming increasingly tense...and deadly!

“We have to recreate the conditions.” Illya began talking the moment Napoleon entered the office.

“Good morning to you, too.” said Napoleon brightly as he walked over to his desk. Sitting down, he crossed his legs and carefully smoothed his trousers. “Now, you were saying?”

“I said,” Illya’s voice was patient; “we will have to recreate the conditions.” She bit her lip, “And, I’m afraid it will have to be an exact recreation. True, there’s no guarantee it will work but it’s the _only_ chance…” Seeing Napoleon’s horrified expression, she stopped.

“Another explosion? Illya… something _that_ big…” Napoleon took a breath. “It was a miracle you made it through the first time... but again? Illya!”

“Napoleon… I’m going to die if I stay here. My body can’t survive in this universe. That’s the reason I was unconscious for so long the first time. We both know the injuries were not nearly severe enough to warrant that kind of reaction.” Illya paused a moment. It was as serious a situation as they’d ever faced, and she _had_ to be strong for Napoleon’s sake. “Napoleon, you know what the doctor said. My body is shutting down. There’s nothing they can do for me here.” Finally, laying her ‘ace’ card, she added, “The same would also be true for the… other Illya. At least this way, there is a _chance_ we can ‘switch back’.”

Napoleon scowled. He didn’t have to like it, but deep down, he knew Illya was right.

He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk, face in hands and began rubbing at his temples. After a moment, when he could speak normally, he asked slowly, “Illya? You said _exact_ recreation...” At Illya’s nod he continued. “But, the two men who died… what about them?” He narrowed his eyes, “And then there’s Dr. Conrad to consider.”

Illya’s voice was steady. “There will be some difficulties, it is true.”

Napoleon raised his head up to stare at Illya in disbelief.

“All right,” Illya amended, “it will be extremely risky and almost impossible! There! Are you satisfied?” Illya’s voice had risen with every word until she was almost shouting.

As the word ‘satisfied’ was still resounding in the room, Napoleon looked at Illya, suddenly contrite, “Illya,” Napoleon’s voice was quiet and resigned. “I know you’re right. I don’t have to like it... it’s just...“ He shrugged his shoulders and offered a wan smile.

Illya, calming instantly, offered a small smile of her own, “I know… but it’s all we have.”

Another long moment passed, both agents looking at each other, offering reassurance and strength in the connection.

Napoleon cleared his throat and the moment passed. “Now, about the two men who died; how does that play into your little scenario?”

“This is, by necessity, speculation, but we believe they died before the, ah, shift, and because they weren’t part of the actual event, their presence will not be needed. The device was aimed at me alone.”

“How can you be so sure about the timing? I didn’t think exact timetables were possible in forensics.”

“They were women when I shot them. Here, they were men.” Illya shrugged.

“Then…since Doctor Conrad was also brought over, we will need him to be present, too.” said Napoleon flatly.

“Yesss.” Illya pinched the bridge of her nose. “That _is_ one of the difficulties.”

At that moment, the phone rang loudly in the momentary lull, causing the agents to jump.

Napoleon recovered first. “Solo.” Tucking the phone receiver under his ear, he jotted down a quick note while speaking, “Yes... I see... Thanks!”

“Illya.” Napoleon hung up the phone, “‘Louis the Lip’ says he may have some information about Conrad.” 

Illya was instant attention.

“I’m to meet him down at Grand Central.” He slipped on his jacket. “The usual rates,” he added as he checked his wallet.

Illya stood up and slipped on her jacket as well. At Napoleon’s unspoken question, she said succinctly, “Backup.”

Inside a nearby alley, Napoleon moved cautiously past some trash barrels, looking for his contact. Illya was blocking the entrance in an old, rusty sedan with a large dent on the right fender, and front bumper tied on with rope. The hood was up, and steam was rising from the engine. Illya wore an oversize sweatshirt, jeans and baseball cap worn low, shadowing her face. She slouched down in the driver’s seat, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, but ostensibly keeping a close watch on her partner. It wasn’t long before she saw Napoleon take an envelope out of his inside breast pocket, and hand it to a figure in the shadows. Then he walked out of the alley, looked askance at the ‘rust bucket’ he had to walk around, and continued down the sidewalk. Illya pressed a button under the dashboard. As the hood lowered itself and locked, Illya had the car started and in gear, following Napoleon at a safe distance. The engine was surprisingly quiet- more like a Cadillac Fleetwood or Eldorado (which it actually was). Driving around the corner, Illya stopped at a light where Napoleon stepped inside. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he looked Illya up and down.

“I seem to be somewhat out of place,” he murmured. In mock chagrin, he added, “Even though this suit is already six months old.”

Illya rolled her eyes but only asked, “Did you get anything?”

“I think so, but we’ll need to verify once we get back to headquarters to verify. We’ll meet in the map room.” At Illya’s raised brows, he grinned. “We’ll need to pinpoint some sites... after you get your shot.”

Illya glared, but her heart wasn’t really in it. As much as she loathed this dependence, she needed _something_ , to counteract the draining effects she was experiencing from being in this dimension.

When Illya got to the map room (dimmed except for the screen, where different maps were being displayed in turn), she noticed Solo wasn’t alone. Heather McNabb was assisting by running the projector. Seeing the close proximity of the pair, Illya snorted to herself. How like Napoleon to give in to his libido. She gave a mental shrug. After all, Napoleon was Napoleon. Besides, she quite liked Heath McNabb in her own world. And Heather was obviously needed for this.

“Has it been verified?” asked Illya by way of a greeting.

Napoleon, immersed in viewing the maps (and possibly in his subtle flirtation with Heather), started for a moment, before removing his hand from Heather’s shoulder, and answering somewhat sheepishly, “Just about.” He refocused on the screen, “Um, Heather, try Map E-3 again.” When E-3 appeared, he asked, “Do we have a more detailed map of that area?” The detailed map appeared, and he moved closer to tap on the screen with his pencil. “Right here, Illya. Louis says Dr. Conrad has been seen at the Acme Import Company twice in the past week. When she was there the second time, she was seen carrying a small box out with her. Louis’s contacts nosed around and found the package was imported from Belgium- I think there’s a very strong possibility it’s his chocolates.”

Illya nodded as she studied the map. “Which hotels are in that vicinity?”

Napoleon was already studying the possibilities. “Several, actually.”

Illya frowned speculatively. “Hmm, the Washington Square, the Chelsea Hotel, and the Hotel Wolcott would all serve...” She thought a bit more. “But if I had to guess, I think her first choice would be the Chelsea. The services would be more to her liking.”

Napoleon gave a feral grin. “My thoughts, exactly. Let’s go hunting.”

“After you, Kemosabe,” responded Illya.

As they started out the door, Illya left first, heading for wardrobe while Napoleon gave Heather’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Thank you,” he murmured.

 

As they started out the door, Illya left first, heading for wardrobe while Napoleann gave Heath’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Thank you,” she murmured.

 

“I see him.” Napoleann spoke softly into her communicator from her vantage point in the hotel lobby where she sat pretending to read a newspaper.

“Where?” Illya’s voice was just as quiet, from where he was working as a waiter in the hotel bar. He was very unhappy with the uniform, which consisted of green visor cap (helping hide his distinctive hair), a short, dark green suede vest, heavy silver ‘dog collar’ around his neck, and very tight, very short, black leather ‘hot pants’ (which hid absolutely nothing except a tiny amount of skin).

“He stopped at the desk. Looks like he picked up some messages. _Oops_ —” Napoleann broke off for a moment, “Sorry, Illya, he just walked past me.” Illya could hear the rustle of paper. “I think he’s headed for the bar. Looks like ‘show time’ for you.”

Illya closed his communicator as he picked up his tray of empty bottles and glasses. Trying to tug down his shorts, he glared at the napkins that had fallen on the floor. Bad enough so much of his body was on public display, being ogled, but the clogs were pinching his toes. He kept his head down, as the doctor walked past him, and sat down at a small table. 

The doctor began looking around for a waiter. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, everyone was busy. Resigned, Illya walked over, holding the order pad close to his face. “What can I get for you?” He spoke in the clipped tones the other waiters used.

Dr. Conrad shot a quick look up at Kuryakin before relaxing back in his chair and drawling, “I’ll have the local beer on tap... and you for later.”

Illya blushed. He’d forgotten the part about _possible_ homosexual. He would have to amend his notes to reflect this new information...

“I am sorry.” Illya tried to sound regretful, as his fingers almost cramped, from gripping the order pad and pen so tightly. “It is against company policy to, um, see the customers later.” Illya really, _really_ hoped Napoleann would get here soon. Harking back to the beer order, he asked, “Ithaca or Olympia? We also have Pabst or Budweiser on tap.”

Conrad stared at Illya, openly eyeing him head to toe, lingering in the middle. “I’ve changed my mind... Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Doctor Conrad, if you know who I am, then you must know why I am here.”

As they locked eyes, the clink of silverware and dishes being stacked, could be heard in the background murmur of voices. To avoid being conspicuous, Illya sat down gingerly, opposite the doctor.

Conrad, arrogantly certain of his position, smirked, his eyes casually moving over what he could see of Kuryakin’s body. “As much as I’d like to think you find me attractive, alas, I know it isn’t so.” He paused a moment before narrowing his eyes and demanding haughtily, “So, tell me, exactly why _are_ you here?”

Illya’s tone was matter of fact. “Let us not pretend. I am here to take you into custody. And, then we will have an in-depth discussion about why you and I are _here_ rather than where we belong.”

Conrad tilted his head to one side. Spreading his hands expansively, he drawled, “ _I_ am here because I feel like having a quiet beer… and, perhaps some congenial company.” Looking pointedly at Illya, he grinned broadly. “Apparently U.N.C.L.E. doesn’t pay enough, since it seems you have to supplement your income by working the lounges.”

Illya spoke, his voice low and deadly, “I am talking about being here in this _universe_ as you are well aware. Now, if you have finished playing these ridiculous _games_ , we will continue this conversation in depth—at headquarters.”

Conrad leaned forward, and looked directly into Illya’s eyes, before whispering, “I believe we can say anything we need to say, right here.” His expression suddenly turned speculative. “Wait a minute...” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, “You want something else.”

Illya remained silent.

Conrad smirked, eyes narrowed. “You think I can ‘fix everything and make it all better’, don’t you? Well, maybe I can, and maybe I can’t. Either way, the point is moot, since it happens that I _like_ it here.” His tone turned confiding. “I even like having _you_ here…” 

Fighting the blush that threatened, Illya gripped his order pad so tightly, his fingerprints were probably stamped through the carbons to the last sheet. His tone became even deadlier. “We will leave _now_ , doctor.” 

“Ha!” Conrad chortled evilly, “In _that_ outfit? Let me assure you that _we_ won’t be going anywhere, unless...” His tone turned seductive. “Unless we go someplace a little more private?”

Illya shook his head in disgust. “No.”

Conrad shrugged. “I’ve changed my mind, then. I believe I’ll go elsewhere for that drink—someplace more agreeable to my digestion!”

Standing up, the doctor headed for the back where the restrooms and kitchen was located. Kuryakin slapped down the order pad, before following the doctor, cursing his inability to secrete any kind of weapon while wearing so skimpy an outfit.

Just as the doctor was about to push through the kitchen door, it swung open. Behind the door was Napoleann Solo, impeccably dressed, and holding a gun aimed directly at Dr. Conrad.

“Doctor, if you will come along, you’re expected at headquarters.” Solo’s voice was quiet, polite, and deadly.

Doctor Conrad slumped. As he did, he suddenly started sagging to the floor, and would have fallen if Illya hadn’t caught him, realizing suddenly, that the doctor was probably feeling the same effects from being in the wrong dimension as he was.

Putting the doctor’s arm over his shoulders to support him, Illya manhandled him to the small couch inside the anteroom of the men’s bathroom. Napoleann, propping the door open, kept her gun aimed on the doctor, while she signaled the agents on standby to come in, and take the unconscious man back to headquarters.

“Illya?” Napoleann closed her communicator one-handedly, “That outfit is very nice on you—”

“Napoleann!” he hissed, trying to quell the sudden blush he felt heat his face.

“—but, do you really want the others to see?” continued Napoleann with a wicked grin.

Illya shot a glare at his partner. As he heard Michele Murphy and Sue Oliver announce their arrival, he ducked into the other part of the bathroom. Having mercy on her partner, Napoleann tugged a coverall out of her shoulder bag, and dangled it from her free hand. It was snatched immediately, and the door firmly shut. 

 

Illya shot a glare at her partner. Suddenly hearing Michael Murphy and Su Oliver announce their arrival, she ducked into the other part of the bathroom. Having mercy on his partner, Napoleon tugged a coverall out of his case and dangled it from his free hand. It was snatched immediately, and the door firmly shut.

Now that the Thrush doctor was languishing in an U.N.C.L.E. cell, two guards inside the cell block, and two guards outside at all times, she didn’t look particularly threatening. Having been stripped and searched completely (including x-rays), and given a plain coverall and slippers to wear, Napoleon felt that she would stay put... for a while, anyway; Dr. Jeffersonia Conrad had a nasty, and all-too-frequent habit of disappearing. 

And, now that they had her, all they had to do was wait for Mr. Waverly to approve their plans. 

The strategies they had in mind were simple, yet dangerous. They would have to dig down to the original lab, construct a bunker comparable to the strength tolerances of the lab as it had been situated in the basement. Illya and Conrad would be taken to the bunker, and, at the proper time, the device would be activated, and things would (hopefully) be restored. 

The theory, if it could be called that, appeared to be sound…and very dangerous. But it was all they had, and time was now the enemy—if they didn’t act quickly, everything they knew would be destroyed. 

The decision to try this was a difficult one. An emergency meeting had been held an hour earlier, using satellite to connect a brilliant mathematician from California and genius physicist in Finland, along with Waverly, Solo, Simpson, and Kuryakin. They went over various scenarios and predicted outcomes, trying to come up with the best plan. With the deadline looming, they had to come up with something _now_. Time was running out…

 

“Napoleon, are you still worrying?” Illya’s soft voice asked. Napoleon started. He’d been in such deep thought that he didn’t even know Illya had entered the office.

Napoleon sighed, trying to hide the overwhelming depression he was feeling. Squinting up at Illya, he said seriously, “Of course I am. This is...“ Napoleon paused a moment, picking his words carefully. “Look, Illya, I _know_ you’re the best in Section 2- after me, of course, but, this,” he began to sputter, “ _this_ is suicide!”

Illya kept her face impassive, allowing Napoleon the time to work through his frustration. On this mission, he was only going along as voluntary backup. If Illya couldn't complete the mission as outlined, she would use 'Plan B'. Unknown to Napoleon, Mr. Waverly had personally given her one of the new suicide pills. These, unlike the cyanide, were supposed give the user a minimal euphoria before simply... ending it. The mission _would_ be a successful one— whatever the outcome. Mr. Waverly's warm and personal handshake with his ambiguous 'good-bye, Ms. Kuryakin’ and warm ‘Thank you for…Good luck’ gave her a sense of a job well done. 

It would be.

 

Solo and Kuryakin sat just outside the perimeter of the original satrap. Completely surrounded by U.N.C.L.E. agents, mostly to keep others away, the area looked like some kind of construction site. A small bunker had been built on the exact spot where Illya had been at the time of the explosion. This was one of the most critical aspects of the entire mission. 

Nudging Illya, Napoleon pointed down at a pile of rubble just south of the bunker as he handed her his binoculars. Illya took them and looked down at the spot he indicated. At first, she couldn’t see anything, but then she spotted slight movement- definitely more than debris blowing in the slight wind… No, there it was again. Unquestionably a person.

“Is it Conrad?” asked Napoleon.

“I can’t tell for certain, but it must be, don’t you think?” said Illya dryly.

Napoleon took back the binoculars to take another look. As he was studying the landscape, Illya rechecked her gear. After a moment, Napoleon said grimly, “It’s the doctor, alright.”

Instantly he recalled the horrible moment when, after the plan was approved they’d gone down to the cell to let Conrad know they would be escorting her to the bunker. The earlier interrogation had supported the ‘Kuryakin-Simpson Theory’ and convinced Waverly to approve it. 

But, when they reached the cell, three guards were unconscious, one dead, and the cell was empty! Illya’s idea was to go ahead with the plan, figuring there was nothing to lose. Besides, the doctor _had_ to know what was going on and it was very likely she would take advantage of the situation.

Seeing Conrad’s appearance at the site simply confirmed their suppositions (and hopes). Napoleon, aware that Illya had finished her check, looked back at his partner.

Illya stood up. “I’d better go.” Giving a small smile, she added, “I wouldn’t want to miss my-” she didn’t complete the sentence as she’d originally intended ‘my own funeral’, instead swiftly substituting, “-own debut.”

Napoleon’s inscrutable look showed he’d known what she almost said. Suddenly, he was terrified for his partner. So many things could go wrong… so many. He wanted to talk about... whatever, just in case… Instead, he reached over and squeezed Illya’s shoulder. Unable to produce a smile, he said solemnly, “Luck, Illya.”

Illya, who’d pulled on her gear, gripped Napoleon’s wrist in turn and gave it a squeeze. “Napoleon, I have every intention on completing this mission. You should have your own Illya returned to you soon.” She kissed him chastely on the cheek. At his start of surprise, her lips quirked mischievously in a ‘ghost’ smile. “Just something to remember me by… as the ‘other’ Illya.” Then she was on her way down the steep hillside.

Napoleon gently touched the spot where she’d kissed him before picking up his binoculars again, this time to track Illya’s progress. Frustrated by the overwhelmingly high stakes, and even higher odds against success, he grimly recalled the little scene in Waverly’s office he’d happened upon earlier that evening when he saw his boss give Illya something and shake her hand warmly, before saying ‘good-bye’. He had a sneaking suspicion that the ‘something’ was some kind of suicide pill…

 

Unable to produce a smile, she said solemnly, “Luck, Illya.”

Illya, who’d pulled on his gear, gripped Napoleann’s wrist in turn, and gave it a squeeze. “Napoleann, I have every intention on completing this mission. You should have your own Illya returned to you soon.” 

He kissed her chastely on the cheek. At her start of surprise, his lips quirked mischievously in a ‘ghost’ smile. “Just something to remember me by… as the ‘other’ Illya” Then he was on his way down the steep hillside.

Napoleann gently touched the spot where he’d kissed her before picking up her binoculars again, this time to track Illya’s progress. Frustrated by the overwhelmingly high stakes and even higher odds against success, she grimly recalled the little scene in Waverly’s office she’d happened upon earlier that evening when she saw her boss give Illya something and shake his hand warmly, before saying ‘good-bye’. She had a sneaking suspicion that the ‘something’ was some kind of suicide pill…

Illya Kuryakin’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the man standing in front of him in the otherwise empty bunker. Keeping his revolver aimed at the man’s heart, he activated his communicator one-handedly.

“Open Channel A,” he said.

Napoleann answered immediately. “ _Solo, here. Illya?_ ”

“I am here with Dr. Conrad.” said Illya. “I am activating the remotes on my mark...” He waited for the second hand sweep to reach twelve, “now!”

“ _Understood_ ,” replied Solo. “ _We’re on standby._ ”

There was a short pause, then, “Thank you, Napoleann...” another pause and then, “Kuryakin out.” As he tucked his communicator back into his pocket, he thumbed on the tracer.

Dr. Conrad smirked as the exchange finished between Solo and Kuryakin. He started to move toward a cabinet.

“Stop.” Kuryakin’s voice was cold.

Conrad looked back over his shoulder. “Or you’ll do what? Kill me? I don’t think so.” His tone turned condescending. “After all, I’m your ticket home.” He took another step.

“Doctor, you underestimate me.” Kuryakin’s voice was very quiet, very deadly. “My mission is to stop you. Now. At any cost.”

“I see.” The doctor was very casual considering Kuryakin had the upper hand. “Mr. Kuryakin, having a scientific background—a doctorate in quantum mechanics if I’m not mistaken, you must surely be aware of the possible ramifications if I am destroyed? Hmm...? Perhaps not. After all, you spend so much time in the field, your technical skills must surely suffer. Allow me to explain.

“You, Mr. Kuryakin, are the focal point of this phenomenon. Or, to be more correct, we are _both_ the focal point as the only two who shifted dimensional planes. It is imperative that we _both_ return to our original point of origin—at the same instant. If only one of us returns, the ‘bubble will burst’, so to speak.”

“Doctor,” Kuryakin’s voice was flat. “Much as I dislike admitting it, I concur with the theory.” Doctor Conrad began to relax until Kuryakin spoke again. “However, I find nothing to qualify our both being alive.”

Conrad froze, his face becoming red with fury.

“You fool!” he spat. “Of course we must both be alive! We must both return! The machine cannot discern one corpse from another, nor will it accept just one of us in the exchange.” Conrad calmed himself with an effort. “So you see, Mr. Kuryakin, we must both be alive... and in good working condition.” He allowed himself a smirk. “The machine is so sensitive that I doubt it would accept too many variances from the first time. And that wrist of yours... that could be enough to throw things off. Further injuries? Not a good idea at all.” He looked pointedly at Kuryakin’s weapon. “Just in case you’re thinking that a bullet to my leg or some other non-vital spot would suffice.”

Illya Kuryakin looked murderous. Roughly, he gestured with his gun at the two protection suits hanging nearby. “I suggest,” he said evenly, “that you put on one of the suits. It is your decision, but I will tell you this. I am darting you in one minute regardless of whether you do or not. You recall my call to Solo? This place will be destroyed whether we are ready or not. There _is_ no turning back.”

Conrad folded his arms across his chest. “Dart me? Is that your solution?” he asked contemptuously. You will get nowhere with that—” He broke off as Kuryakin’s knuckle whitened on his trigger finger. Reaching for the nearest protection suit, he unzipped it and laid it before him on the ground, preparatory to stepping into it when he suddenly whirled around. Stiff-armed, he knocked the gun out of Illya’s hand. Scooping up some dirt, he threw it at Illya, causing him to be momentarily blinded, before running out the door. 

Illya, eyes streaming, stumbled to the door, planning to pursue the doctor when he suddenly realized the time. Turning back to the small room, he grabbed the suit the doctor was about to don and put it on himself. With a feeling of déjà vu, he pulled off the thin mattress from the gurney and tucked it around him. Then, with just minutes left, he hugged himself into a ball, closed his eyes and waited. 

This would be especially hard on Napoleoann… and Napoleon…if the theories really _were_ accurate. Briefly, he considered the suicide pill, but immediately rejected the idea. If these were really his final moments, he preferred to face it clear-headed. Besides, chiding himself for his carelessness, he had no way of knowing where the doctor had gotten off to. If Conrad was dead, then his own death would simply complete the circle. But, unless Conrad had just suffered heart failure or the like, Illya would just have to see this through to the end. 

He wished he knew if the doctor’s device was really going to work again.

The concussion from the blast took his breath away as it did the first time. His irritated eyes felt like needles were stuck inside from the bright light and the searing blast of heat was overwhelming. Crossing his fingers mentally, he hung on to consciousness for another moment before everything went black.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last hurrah...

“Illya!” Napoleon’s voice grew more desperate with each passing minute. “ _Illya!!!_ ” He was frantic now as he began to pull rocks and dirt away, heedless of the thorns and debris which tore up his hands. There were other agents securing the area but Napoleon was focused on just this one charge…

Wait! Was that an arm? Oh, dear God, it’s Illya!

Only a few more, heart-stopping moments before he finally had Illya’s face uncovered enough to check for breathing and pulse.

Alive!

Illya’s alive!!

Calling on his communicator for emergency pickup, he looked down at the familiar face, dirt-streaked, cut and bruised. He gently brushed away the last of the dirt as did a quick check noting pulse rate while checking for obvious injuries.

“Mmmmnnnngggghh.” Illya groaned, beginning to wake up.

“Easy, now,” soothed Napoleon as he brushed the overlong bangs gently away from a cut on Illya’s forehead.

“N-Napoleon?” Illya’s voice was raspy.

Napoleon gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s right, partner.” 

“Th- the bunker… the Doctor…?” Illya needed to know the outcome. 

“Completely destroyed.” Napoleon grinned as he looked at his less-than-pristine partner. His stubborn, cantankerous, and dedicated _male_ partner.

Groaning again, Illya tried to sit up, but was gently stopped by Napoleon.

“Hold up, there, Tovarisch. Just be patient for once and wait until you’re checked out.” Napoleon tried to sound firm, but his happiness was hard to subdue.

Illya’s eyes opened, and widened as he really _looked_ at his partner.

“N-Napoleon, it _is <./i> you!”_

_Napoleon shook a little with suppressed laughter. “Yes, Illya, you’re finally out of Oz.”_

_Ruffling the dirt out of Illya’s hair, Napoleon whispered, “Are you sorry to be here with _me?_ I’m not female, you know. I mean, after that kiss.” Pausing, he tried to put a pout on his face. “No chance of any sexy rendezvous, no clandestine interludes, no—”_

_“Stop!” Illya was laughing, both at Napoleon’s antics and the sheer joy of being alive and back where he belonged. “You know I wasn’t the one to—”_

_Giving a mock glare, Napoleon said, “And you _won’t_ be! Don’t you ever do anything like that, again! That’s an order!”_

_“Of course not.”_

_They were home._

_Ruffling the dirt out of Illya’s hair, Napoleann whispered, “Are you sorry to be here with _me?_ I’m not male, you know. I mean, after that kiss.” Pausing, she tried to put a pout on her face. “No chance of any sexy rendezvous, no clandestine interludes, no—”_

_“Stop!” Illya was laughing, both at Napoleann’s antics and the sheer joy of being alive and back where she belonged. “You know I wasn’t the one to—”_

_Giving a mock glare, Napoleann said, “And you _won’t be_! Don’t you ever do anything like that, again! That’s an order!”_

_“Of course not.”_

_They were home._


End file.
